A cold shower. Work. Distance. That's the prescription for whatever the fuck this is.
But Camille Montclair has other plans.
She finds me on the main terrace, iPad in hand, the morning breeze playing with loose strands of her hair. She's wearing a white dress that clings just enough to remind me of what's underneath.
"Mr. Kingsley, I need your input on the stone selection for the main lobby," she says, her voice steady but her eyes never quite meeting mine.
I maintain my distance, hands in my pockets to prevent them from straying where they shouldn't. "The Antiguan limestone would be my preference. It connects the property to the island."
"That's what I thought too," she nods, making a note. "And for the accent walls in the restaurant?"
"Show me the options."
She steps closer, too close, the scent of her hair drifting up to me. When she hands me her tablet, our fingers brush, and the jolt travels straight to my groin.
I focus on the screen, not the curve of her neck or the way she tucks her bottom lip between her teeth when she's concentrating. "The darker one," I say decisively. "It creates better contrast." I actually don’t really care, I’m just desperate for this interaction to be over.
"I agree." She takes back the tablet, and her fingertips linger against mine for a fraction longer than necessary.
This happens repeatedly throughout the morning. She finds me to ask about light fixtures, about flooring transitions, about cabinet hardware. Each inquiry legitimate. Each interaction pure torture.
At the bar design review, she leans over the blueprints, her body close enough that I can feel her heat. "If we move this wall back just two feet," she says, pointing, "we create a more intimate seating area and improve the sightlines to the ocean."
She's right. The adjustment is perfect. Her design instincts are flawless, which makes this all worse. Because I didn't hire her for her body or her face or the way her voice gets so sexy when she's excited about an idea. I hired her because she's fucking talented.
I step back, putting distance between us. "Make the change," I say curtly. "Send the revised drawings to engineering."
Her eyes flicker with something—hurt? disappointment?—before her professional mask slides back into place. "Of course."
She doesn't deserve my coldness. But cold is safer than what I really want to give her.
By afternoon, I've resorted to hiding in my temporary office, burying myself in paperwork that could wait until I return to New York. Anything to avoid another encounter that leaves me hard and aching.
My phone buzzes with a notification. A group text from Tristan and Julian.
Tristan: How's the project coming along?
Julian: More importantly, how's the view? And I don't mean the ocean.
I stare at the screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard. These are my closest friends. The only two people who know the real me. Who've seen me build my empire from nothing, who've stood beside me through triumphs and disasters. They'd laugh themselves sick if they knew I was hiding from a 24-year-old interior designer like a teenager with his first crush.
Julian: How many women, Alex?
I can practically hear his laugh—that booming, uninhibited sound that cuts through any room. Julian has never understood restraint, in business or pleasure.
Alex: None. I'm here to work.
Tristan: Since when has that stopped you?
Julian: Remember Monaco? That redhead AND her friend?
Alex: That was different. I'm not here to get laid. The resort opens in 4 months. I need it perfect.
Tristan: All work and no play makes Alex a grumpy asshole.
Julian: More grumpy than usual, you mean.
I almost put the phone down, but something compels me to add:
